6-21 Sa 9:47 AM
Amtrak Coast Starlight bound for Portland, Oregon along the graffiti-colored, rubble-heaped, steel-girded, concrete gully through which flows the LA River, which actually looks clean and blue and healthy with grass and algae and silt on its cement banks. Next stop: Glendale. There's the back of the crumbling Van De Kamp's bakery. Thing and 'Shell dropped me off at Union Station. The Glendale stop looks like an old Mexican outpost complete with man in cowboy hit drinking coffee like a Tejano in a lawn chair. Soon I'll have to locate the bourbon on this train and decide when to eat my mushrooms. Last night, Shirelle, Christina, April, and I partied in the Hollywood Hills home of producer John Ziffrin. The walls were adorned with Picassos and a Warhol Mao. How original. It's hot in here. It's cloudy today. I've still go to read the paper. Last night there was a full moon on the eve of the summer solstice and the junkies were out howling and friendly and hustling up their fixes. Too bad these windows don't open. This train acshully chugs. I had steak and eggs and hash brown potatoes and thick sourdough toast at the Pantry, and I'm stuffed. A bum made change for us at the meter. I guess when I'm done reading the paper, I'll walk the train from one end to the other. I wonder if it will be hard to sit in the lounge car. I wonder if there could be a TV with the Dodgers and Giants on it later. Last night's game was what baseball is all about: Storied rivalry, pressure, extra innings, dozens of subplots. I'm tired behind the eyes. Trailer parks, weeds, barbed wire, industrial warehouses, flood channel, brown hills, wrecked cars, gravel pile, construction site, steel drums, pick-up-on-blocks, radio tower, satellite dish, ballplayers, decades of junk, swimming pools, Biscuits and Gravy, Country Kitchen, Spanish Tile roofs, horses, plastic siding, boulders, good place for an ambush, Chatsworth, tunnel, dynamite gorge. Long tunnel, black outside, only the feeling of motion There's a stubborn piece of steak fat lodged between my two most inaccessible molars. I'll do my 15 min and1 pg in the big book.
Amtrak Coast Starlight bound for Portland, Oregon along the graffiti-colored, rubble-heaped, steel-girded, concrete gully through which flows the LA River, which actually looks clean and blue and healthy with grass and algae and silt on its cement banks. Next stop: Glendale. There's the back of the crumbling Van De Kamp's bakery. Thing and 'Shell dropped me off at Union Station. The Glendale stop looks like an old Mexican outpost complete with man in cowboy hit drinking coffee like a Tejano in a lawn chair. Soon I'll have to locate the bourbon on this train and decide when to eat my mushrooms. Last night, Shirelle, Christina, April, and I partied in the Hollywood Hills home of producer John Ziffrin. The walls were adorned with Picassos and a Warhol Mao. How original. It's hot in here. It's cloudy today. I've still go to read the paper. Last night there was a full moon on the eve of the summer solstice and the junkies were out howling and friendly and hustling up their fixes. Too bad these windows don't open. This train acshully chugs. I had steak and eggs and hash brown potatoes and thick sourdough toast at the Pantry, and I'm stuffed. A bum made change for us at the meter. I guess when I'm done reading the paper, I'll walk the train from one end to the other. I wonder if it will be hard to sit in the lounge car. I wonder if there could be a TV with the Dodgers and Giants on it later. Last night's game was what baseball is all about: Storied rivalry, pressure, extra innings, dozens of subplots. I'm tired behind the eyes. Trailer parks, weeds, barbed wire, industrial warehouses, flood channel, brown hills, wrecked cars, gravel pile, construction site, steel drums, pick-up-on-blocks, radio tower, satellite dish, ballplayers, decades of junk, swimming pools, Biscuits and Gravy, Country Kitchen, Spanish Tile roofs, horses, plastic siding, boulders, good place for an ambush, Chatsworth, tunnel, dynamite gorge. Long tunnel, black outside, only the feeling of motion There's a stubborn piece of steak fat lodged between my two most inaccessible molars. I'll do my 15 min and1 pg in the big book.
posted by johnz at 7:58 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home